


The Wind

by Serai



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serai/pseuds/Serai





	The Wind

.

From the high and chilly North, the wind comes running. Gliding over the barrens, its arms spread out over miles, tracing with unseen fingers the silk of empty lands.

As the earth slopes up, the wind rises with it, eager to scale the heights. Laughing, it leaps to fly among the mountain peaks, braiding the range's triple crown in a whipcrack through the canyons. The wind moves too fast to see much below, and in its freezing joy it cares not what might be struggling for life beneath the peaks. Death is no stranger to these mountains, and things have been lost here before.

The wind skims the eastern side of the mountains, arching down towards the grasslands, its own favored playground. From afar, emerald light glows in the sun. The wind swims into the green, running its fingers through the earth's waving hair.

And here its own children, the children of the wind. No earthly creature more beautiful than these, they sense its presence, and buck and dance in eagerness. They are restless, these children, tense and worried, and their cries tell it news of darkness and fear. It passes over the golden hill and the sorrow within, teasing and tearing at flags and straw. The air moves heavily in this land, weighted down with smoke and silence, so the wind takes to the mountains again, seeking the high passes to clear itself anew. The bright, harsh glitter of sun off the snow heights, and it sharpens to blade yet again.

From the precipice, the wind leaps with an endless, mad cry down onto the plains, rushing over the marble labyrinth. Here too a tight thrumming rises in the earth, a hum as of something stretched and aware. The wind swoops down towards a bright silver skein, light leaping off currents that cleave this land, and mark its own limit. Past the river it will not go, not yet.

The wind picks up speed as it races over the water. Tendrils of current from the ashen hills turn it cold, and the earth shivers beneath its unease. Faster now, speeding quickly, gathering a trace of ash and panic. The wind trembles in its heart, unwilling to know the currents that wind through those peaks of anguish.

Arcing away from the river, the wind rushes now to the West, there to meet the ocean wind and deliver news. As it races on its way, a sudden shower soaks the ground beneath, for the wind cannot contain its tears.

.


End file.
